


Blood Bitter As Ash

by taichara



Category: Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 14:14:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12434526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: A nighttime encounter of the most unwanted and unexpected kind, and a new resolution, on the eve of the final push of Seliph's ragtag army of deliverance.





	Blood Bitter As Ash

The Emperor of Grannvale slept alone. This was hardly a new development, all these long years; far from it. And if the court tittered and questioned the fact that Arvis kept an empty bed so many years after the Empress' death, they kept that gossip out of earshot of the wrathful temper of Fjalar's scion.

But sleeping alone, and sleeping well; these things are far, far from the same, and not even a hearth fire and masses of warmly glowing lanterns can keep darkness away forever --

_: Wake up, Your Majesty. :_

No command was more unncessary. Arvis jolted to consciousness at the first word -- hissing, ominous, slicing through his skull -- lunging upright in a tangle of fur and velvets and calling on scarlet flames --

_: No. :_

\-- that died at his hands and in his throat between heartbeats. Held frozen -- like the unseen grip around his throat. He gurgled, trying to curse, to roar. No. How -- how did anyone get past the wardens --

_: You need more than that to keep me away. :_

There was no hand holding him in place, but held he was. Wild-eyed, Arvis stared out into the darkness (why were all the lamps dead, _why_ , and only feeble coals in the hearth), fists balling into death-grips onto the heavy coverlets -- why could he not call --

_: Because I don't want you to, Your Majesty. :_

A flicker of pale light in the darkness, across the yawning expanse of his bedchamber. The wan bone glow of balefire, of …

And now he knew that voice. Knew that measured tenor stripped of all warmth, of all _life_ \--

The wan glow glided closer to the bed, resolved itself into the last thing Arvis, Emperor of Grannvale, ever wished to see. Bloodless, bone pale, bruised with death, eyes like cold coals, Sigurd of Chalphy paced slowly ever closer to Arvis' unwilling perch, and his smile was just as bloodless, and promised terrible things.

"You -- I -- How are you _here_ , now, why --"

_: You have something of mine, Your Majesty. You took it and had it hidden away. :_

The grip on his throat tightened. Arvis wheezed, spit a curse, gasping for air, and pushed back with all his power; the revenant paused his patient stalk, mouth tightening, eyes burning balefully.

"She's _gone_ , Sigurd --"

He hurled the words like the scarlet fires that still refused to answer and Sigurd rocked once, rippling like foxfire in a tempest, a single moment for Arvis to almost, almost think that he could gain ground against his adversary --

Between heartbeats Sigurd crossed the echoing bedchamber. On the very bed now he kneeled -- and there was weight there, ominous, in his translucent form -- but only to gain purchase and lash out as Arvis hitched closer to the ancient oak of the headboard, throttling down on involuntary screams.

Cold. Cold as fire. Dead fingers reached out to lace around Arvis' throat and drag him closer, press him down, tearing linens free to trace old scars down his chest, lingering, marking every single wound he'd seen beneath ashes and char so many years ago. Sigurd's touch burned, it _burned_ and drew blood in great shallow gashes. No matter the look of those pale fingers, Arvis felt the truth -- charred bone, sharp and broken, pinned him helpless to the bed and cut red ribbons in his flesh, slowly and pitilessly.

Sigurd was carving the Brand into his body, again and again.

Loptyr's Brand.

_: This is what we died for, isn't it? To hide this. :_  
_: But you can't hide it from me, Your Majesty. Not any more. :_

Cold. So cold. Sigurd bled the warmth from him as his blood soaked the coverlets and there was nothing he could do about it, pinned by terror and pain and death itself looming over him --

"There was no choice … You forged an empire without questioning …"

Blackened claws tightened and Arvis screamed again. Sigurd's smile turned ever so slightly _hungry_.

_: I did. You've inherited my efforts without complaining overmuch. :_  
_: Do you know how many died because of you? Do you know many are dying now, Your Majesty? :_

Balefire eyes blazed and Sigurd leaned in closer, tearing close-clutched bedclothes and linen like paper to draw blood from even more flesh held immobile; and through it all Arvis could not, could _not_ dare to look away from the pale drawn face, the hungry smile. He tried only once and that was enough; the instant he slid his gaze from Sigurd's burning regard, he saw what pinned him in place and held him captive.

Saw the shattered black bones, the charred rags over charcoal flesh.

"Stop …"

He could not stand it. Better the death-mask, smiling, hungry. But it was still black sharp bone that drew his blood, now tracing crimson trails down his cheeks with cold fingertips, tracing his tears …

_: No. Not until you swear to return what's mine to where it belongs. :_

Arvis writhed. The fresh-carved Brands ran scarlet. Sigurd ignored his struggles and turned his attention to tracing collarbones, throat, his head cocked thoughtfully.

"… Sigurd, you _know_ .. you have to …"

_: This isn't about Dierdre. :_

Black bone claws tightened again beneath their illusion of ghostly flesh, rending muscle, drawing even more of Arvis' warmth away. With his other hand Sigurd pulled the remnants of bloodstained velvets from his captive.

_: This isn't about Dierdre at all. :_  
_: Taking her wasn't enough for you; you needed another trophy after you betrayed us all. :_

Now, now, dead fingers truly wrapped around his throat, slick with his blood and promising more to come, clawlike thumb pushing under Arvis' jaw, forcing his head up, counterpoint to the fingertips dancing almost playfully across now-bare ribcage, burning, bleeding. Sigurd's smile was sharp as a sword, and held nothing but cold hunger and promise of colder agony.

"trophy …"

Arvis coughed the word. It was harder to breathe, now. What … what did Sigurd … Pain, and blood, and fire that burned cold and pitiless and Arvis wracked his fear-frenzied mind, shaking, struggling, and Sigurd ignored it all to work at a new task -- carving Fjalar's Brand free from Arvis' ivory flesh.

"… no."

Enlightened terror brought a crazed revelation to the forefront. Sigurd paused statue-still, balefire eyes locked on Arvis' bruised and bloodied face, patient, predatory. Arvis coughed, shuddered, coughed again, a darkening haze dancing in his vision.

"… no trophy. no. but i still …"

_: You still have it hidden where it can't be found. Send it back where it belongs, Your Majesty. :_

"… i can …"

Cold dead hands came to rest on Arvis' flayed and heaving chest, on one bloodied, tear-streaked cheek, and Sigurd leaned in close again, so close as to breathe charnel smoke on Arvis' lips --

_: Yes. Do that. Or I'll visit you again, and less restrained this time. :_

\-- Light. Warmth. The clusters of lanterns gleamed soothingly from the wall sconces; the hearth burned sullenly, warm but contained. No enveloping darkness, no soul-devouring cold … Not a mark, not a bruise. Not a drop of blood stained the coverlets. Untouched, unmarked.

Shaking violently, Arvis lifted his head slowly, so slowly, to see the silvery glint of holy, eternal steel above his head.

To see Tyrfing buried half to the quillions into the headboard above.

And its hilt bore the mark of an ashen, bloodied grasp.


End file.
